This Evening Has Been
by L56895
Summary: A surprisingly sober Mason arrives on Christmas Day.


It's been a little while since I watched Dead Like Me, but I had an idea for a slightly angsty Christmas fic that seemed to fit these two perfectly. Number three in a multi-fandom winter series I've been writing over Christmas inspired by 'Baby It's Cold Outside.'

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"This evening has been..." Daisy trailed off and met his eye as he watched her carefully from the other end of the couch. She had curled herself up on her end some time before and tucked her feet into his lap; with his free hand he pushed little circles into the souls of them, leaving her sighing in to her drink whenever she took a sip. He pressed down again with her thumb in to a particularly sensitive spot and she stifled a moan before rallying herself and clearing her throat. "Unexpected," she finished finally.

He said nothing, just swirled the remnants of his cola in the bottle and raised it to his lips. His sobriety had concerned her at first, then simply confused her; he had turned up at her and George's house fresh faced and smelling like soap instead of whisky and smoke, even declined the scotch she had offered to pour him. Surprisingly, she found sober Mason to be charming in a way she really had not expected; without the jitters of his usual highs, the grime of the gutter, he was almost attractive.

She wasn't sure she liked it.

He was still watching her carefully, a playful smile on his lips and she felt suddenly exposed, as if he knew more about her than anyone else. Arguably, he did.

"Mason," she sighed when his silence got too much, "Why are you here?"

If the question threw him off he gave no indication, just carried on watching her while he pressed his thumb in to her skin. He had moved on from the soles of her feet now and was working his way towards her calves with a calm determination. His touch felt good in a way she hadn't expected, in a way she couldn't remember feeling in a very long time. Finally, he took a little breath and put her out of her misery.

"It's Christmas, I didn't think you should be alone on Christmas."

"I've seen a hundred Christmases, Mason. Some alone, lots with other people. It's just another day."

It was a tone she had used with him before, that almost patronising lilt that she liked to think of as seductive but was largely reserved for people whom she wanted to keep in her orbit but out of reach. It always had an effect on him and she wasn't disappointed this time; his mouth turned downwards and he looked, momentarily, a little sad.

"Well then, I'm here because I love you."

"You've said that before too." She wanted to catch him off guard, to see some of the usual uncertainty in his eyes. She needed that, she realised, needed him to want her approval. That had always been her drug; being desired. Now, it was as if he were the one in control, the one choosing the path they were going to go down. That wasn't their dynamic and she hated it; she wanted him drunk and silly and doe eyed and making her laugh. Not serious and solemn; the last time he looked at her like that he had told her he didn't like her any more and she wasn't sure that, this time, she would be able to bear it.

"It's true," he whispered simply, and she pushed herself up against the arm rest, pulled her leg away from him and rubbed her face, suddenly exasperated.

"Why, Mason? Why do you love me?"

"Because you're beautiful, and not just in the way you look but in the way you are; everything about you is beautiful. But you're haunted, like me, and not many people understand what it's like to be haunted in the way we are."

"I think Rube would disagree-"

"Not, not Rube," he replied forcefully, reaching out to wrap a hand around the heel of her foot. "Rube doesn't get it. Georgie gets it, maybe a little, but she's only been dead a few years so she's still moping about how she died. There's something tragic about how we _lived_ , Daisy, not how we died."

He was staring at her with an intensity that she didn't recognise, and for a moment she had the feeling of having invited a stranger in to her home. Then, it was gone and he flopped against the back of the sofa, rested his cheek on the worn fabric and looked at her with soft eyes.

"Do you want to go to bed with me, Mason?" It was a last ditch attempt to restore the power balance between them and she knew it; make him admit how much he wanted her and she'd be winning again.

"More than anything. But right now I just want to look at you."

She could believe that was all he wanted, that was all he ever wanted from her; to be near her and look at her and listen to her. Sometimes, she convinced herself that he was the only person who did. Why she was so determined to push him away she didn't know, but she'd run out of barbs that would not hurt him- and she didn't want to hurt him, not really.

Instead, she shifted on the couch and crawled over to him, fell down in to his open arms and let him hold her. Up close, she felt a little bit of the usual Mason; short bristles where he hadn't shaved scratching her temple; the faint mustiness of smoke on his jacket; the thick wool of his cut off gloves cupping her shoulders as he pulled her close.

"Why are you hear, Mason?" she whispered again, soothed by the feel of his fingers in her hair when he reached up to stroke her.

"I wanted to be with you," he replied, with a little less confidence, "Because I'm sober and still you're the only person I want to be with, Darling. In this entire godforsaken afterlife you're the only person."

At the bitter tone in his voice she flinched, curled up closer so that he could wrap her up entirely in his arms. For a moment there was the sound of absolute silence, not even the pounding of a heart or the intake of breath, and she relished it. Until the clock hit midnight and the grandfather in the hallway chimed.

"It's not Christmas any more," she said quietly, surprised by the sadness that had crept in to her voice. He said nothing, just continued to stroke her hip gently and listen, always listening. Tiredness swept over her, a wash of lethargy that sank right down in to her bones and she realised she had lost the energy to be coy. Tentatively, she raised her head and kissed him, slowly at first but then hungrily when he opened his mouth to her and moaned.

For all her bravado and escapades she had never been to bed with a man who loved her, not really, and when he slipped his hand under her shirt she let him. Let him touch her, and kiss her, and nip his teeth along the sensitive skin at her collar. She rewarded him with moans, little noises of encouragement, and when she slipped out of his lap and took his hand he followed her willingly to her bedroom. Inside, he undressed her carefully; teasing open each button as if afraid of breaking something. She wondered briefly if he was worried about snagging the material or her. Nevertheless, he persisted until they were lying skin to skin together on her bed; her leg wrapped around his hip and him thrusting in to her with a hand gripping her thigh tightly. His free fingers worked magic between her legs- swirling and probing and stroking until she was loose-limbed and crying out against his mouth.

There was something desperate about the way they came together, something that briefly crossed her mind as being shameful and made her want to weep for the things they never got to live to do. But he kissed her hot on the mouth, whispered his love in to her hair and held her tight as he came, grinding against her hips and wailing in to her ear. Afterwards, she waited for the flood of embarrassment, of excuses that never came, and let her body relax against him when he pulled her close to his chest as he drifted off to sleep.


End file.
